


To Pyeongchang

by neuroglam



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Deniss is headed for Pyeongchang 2018 yay, Helsinki 2017, I apologize to all that is good and decent, I didn't watch the middle 5-6 people because this brilliance needed to pour itself forth, M/M, a dash of praise kink, also can you guys picture the green iguana on the nightstand, its a mediocre PWP but I had feels, the FS triple axel Deniss fell on, the fucking hug at the end you guys i cant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: At the hotel on the night of the FS.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [To Pyeongchang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348763) by [RoEstel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoEstel/pseuds/RoEstel)



 

Deniss is on his stomach, on a hotel room bed. They’re all the same, these beds: standard, medium-hard mattress; white sheets, high thread count. Pillows. His head is on one of those pillows. He’s hiding his face in his hands because he doesn’t want to talk and smile, now. It’s not just skating he’s picking up from Stephane; it’s the little habits, too, like not wallowing in it and grinning broadly and trying to stay positive. Most times, smiling’s not hard: he’s so honored, still, so charged-up with Stephane’s attentions even though it’s been an eternity since they’ve started working together. Doing this.

 

Broad palms move up and down his naked back, rubbing in oil. It’s a fucking triple axel—yes, it’s not an easy jump, yes even Nathan Chen fell on one, yes, there’s so many things he could be telling himself to get himself out of this funk—so many things Stephane would be telling him. And by this point, Deniss has Stephane’s voice inside of his head, always, and it’s not a bad voice to have, because Stephane is gentle, and kind, and when he’s disappointed he never takes it out on Deniss. 

 

Deniss couldn’t give him a triple axel today, but he can give him this. He can radiate the joy of being with Stephane, lift up his hips a little when Stephane’s hands drift lower.

“Turn a little,” Stephane says and pulls him slightly up. Deniss can hear the click of a bottle cap, and soon Stephane’s hands are back on him, rubbing ointment into his bruise.

“I’m sorry,” Deniss says into the pillow.

“Shhh. It happens to everyone.” Stephane’s voice is quiet, kind. “You made it to Pyeongchang.”

Another cold glob of ointment makes its way onto his skin. Deniss exhales, relaxing into the pillow.

“Good,” Stephane says when he senses him let go. “Good.”

The tube of bruise stuff gets tossed to the side—Deniss can see it hit the sheets with his peripheral vision—and there’s the sound of Stephane opening the massage oil again, then rubbing his palms to warm it up. Up his back, down—all the way down, reaching for his butt-cheeks and pressing, then up again.

The next time Stephane’s hands are on his ass, Deniss can’t help it—he pushes his butt up a little, pressing into them. He wants it. Wants this. Wants to know that even after a disappointment, Stephane still enjoys taking pleasure in him, that he still has value.

Stephane’s palms stop moving but his thumbs make circles now, sinking closer and closer into the crack of his ass on each swipe. Deniss spreads his legs a little more and breathes faster—so does Stephane, he can hear.

“You did very well today, you know.” Stephane rumbles behind him and swipes the pucker of his ass with an oily thumb.

Deniss cries out, at the praise way more than at the touch.

“No, really.” The blasted thumb is rubbing—just rubbing, not even pressing in, even though Denis pushes up into it. “You got up, and you went on. If someone started watching you in the middle, they’d see infectious energy, clean execution. They wouldn’t be able to tell that you had a major fall in the first part at all—which is exactly how it should be.”

“Stephane,” Deniss mumbles into his pillow. He wants more—wants to be Stephen’s. Wants to _know._

Wants a hand on his dick, too, and bad. Shameless, he humps the sheets.

Behind him, Stephane chuckles and his finger presses in.

“Good boy,” Stephane says. “You did so well, and I’m so proud. This was a learning experience, and I’m glad it happened now.” Another finger. “But what matters is, each time you fall you get a little bit better and getting up and moving on. Good boy,” Stephane murmurs as his fingers slide in and out. “Good.”

“Please,” Deniss says.

“How do you want it?”

“Like this. I need to feel your weight on me,” Deniss says, quiet.

“Okay,” Stephane says. “Okay.”

Deniss feels the mattress shifts a little as Stephane moves; hears his low growl as he spreads massage oil on his dick.

“So proud of you,” Stephane whispers into his back and presses in, lying on top of him and weighing him down. “My boy. My favorite. Mine.”

Denis tears up because he feels so loved. Stephane’s only saying things like these because somehow, he’s found out that they mean a lot for Deniss to hear, but it works all the same, every time.

“So proud,” Stephane says and bottoms out.

And it’s wonderful, like this—to be so stretched, to know he’s making Stephane happy. To push up to meet his thrusts and beg for his hand. To know that they’ll be out for dinner somewhere later, eating things in tiny portions from large, decorated plates and drinking white wine.

To look forward to how he will feel it, the ache in his ass when he sits—half from the bruise, half from Stephane’s dick. To feel both of them as one.

In the end, he doesn’t have to beg. Stephane feels him fuck himself a tad bit faster, more desperate. He gets Stephane’s hand without even asking; it pumps him as Stephane bites on his neck and his thrust get shallower.

Deniss bites his hand as he comes—and this is the best, too, squeezing around Stephane’s dick with each strand of come he shoots into the mattress. Feeling Stephane drive in, one last time, and squeeze the arm that is around his chest as he fills his ass.

This is the real win right here, falling or no falling: knowing that once they catch their breath, Stephane will pull out and scoot back, hold Deniss’ ass cheeks open to watch come leak out his ass, and he’ll love him for it.

Then they’ll hold each other sleepily and kiss, then have dinner, with wine.

Then, later in the night, they’ll fuck again—and Deniss will bust his ass on the ice, day in and day out for the next six months, Stephane’s kind eyes and his big smile following him as he falls and falls and falls on his quad salchow.

Then next year, they’ll go to Pyeongchang.

 


End file.
